


Don't Pause

by mousapelli



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hangover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousapelli/pseuds/mousapelli
Summary: The morning after the Marseilles gala, Yuuri as usual wakes up wanting to die, and Victor is way too amused with himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I hope 'yuuri can't remember anything that happened last night while drunk' is an ongoing trope in their marriage, for sure. I woke up this morning with a godawful headache of my own from drinking one single lemonade vodka last night (please tell me somebody calls Yurio this as a pet name) and this entire idea formed all at once. 
> 
> Pryanichek means gingerbread, and is honestly a Russian pet name. It's like calling your boyfriend 'sugar' but when they have a bit more spice to them. This subtlety will be entire lost on Yuuri for a really long time. 
> 
> Yuuri's 'hurry up' is literally 'don't pause,' hence the title, and it's hard to represent in fic but I like reminders that neither one of them is speaking their native language with the other, so they're probably speaking an adorable mashup of all three after a while. 
> 
> Oh, also, the thing about Kazakhs and singing competitions is 100% true. In their mostly nomadic history, when families crossed paths, singing competition right after traditional greetings. There's essentially no way Otabek can't sing any other person under the table, and will do so if challenged to in any way. Somebody please write the Otabek at karaoke fic, I'm begging you.

Yuuri wakes up with his head throbbing and his first coherent thought is _fuck not again_. It takes several agonizing seconds for his surroundings to resolve into their hotel room, sheets scratchy and unfamiliar, mattress too thick, windows in the wrong place. There's warmth at his back and a heavy arm across his waist, and when Yuuri looks down there's the glint of gold on those slender fingers, so whatever he did last night, at least he didn't accidentally get divorced. 

Where are they again? Oh right, Marseilles. City of love and pastis. Yuuri doesn't care for anise-based liquors honestly, but his headache says that last night he overcame that hurdle with enthusiasm. Fuck. 

"Fuuuuuck," he whispers. 

With deep resignation, Yuuri reaches for the bedside table and fumbles Victor's phone off of it, tugging it free from its charging cable. Thumbing the button to bring up the lock screen, Yuuri pushes the phone against Victor's lax hand so that his thumb presses into the button, and the fingerprint ID screen clears away. 

Yuuri goes right for the most recent pictures, flipping through them to learn about drunk Yuuri's escapades in backwards chronology. The headache is right over his left eye, flaring every time his eyebrow twitches and oh dear, why is he never wearing pants in these pictures and what on earth is he doing with Christophe? And Phichit and fuck everything, did he lose this dance-off to Otabek this year? Since when can that guy move like that and why doesn't his free skate revolve entirely around that skill?

"Kazakhs apparently have a proud tradition of musical competition," Victor murmurs against Yuuri's ear, at least partially awake. He curls more firmly along Yuuri's back, which would be so nice if even slight movements didn't make Yuuri feel like his skin were going to burst like an overripe peach. "How do you feel?"

"Uuuuugh," Yuuri blarghs. The headache is getting worse and if he doesn't get up now to take something, he'll probably puke. Shoving off Victor's arm, he crawls to his feet and sways for a second before he can direct his course loosely towards the bathroom to down some water and painkillers. His stomach rolls, but he keeps them down. In the mirror his cheeks are puffy and his hair is sticking out all over in lank whorls and he looks so much like his dad that it's the actual worst. 

Victor is still only half-awake when Yuuri stumbles back to bed, but he's on his back and holds out his arms, spread wide for Yuuri to crawl into them, smiling like Yuuri is Adonis instead of a grim vision of his middle-aged future. Moron. 

"You're gonna go bald," he hisses with venom, but Victor only hums happily as he cuddles Yuuri down against his chest and gets the blankets back over them. Belatedly Yuuri realizes that he probably said that in Japanese, but it seems like too much effort to repeat it in English. 

"Still hurt?" Victor asks, brushing Yuuri's hair back from his face, palm resting warm and gentle on his forehead. Yuuri whines piteously. "Wanna do it again? It'll distract you."

"Again?" Yuuri asks, faintly distressed. He gropes for any memory of the first time, but there's nothing. He aches vaguely all over but that could be from skating a 225.3 free program or the hangover or, given a couple of those pictures, an enthusiastic chair dance that probably reminded nobody at that party of a katsudon. 

Victor chuckles, pressing lazy, dragging kisses down the length of Yuuri's jaw. "Again. You were very persistent. And _masterful_."

"The fuck does that mean," Yuuri grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut tight and wishing his stomach would stop rolling. It would be nice to let Victor distract him until the aspirin kicked in, but Yuuri isn't sure any kind of motion won't make it worse. "I'm afraid I'll be sick."

"I'll do all the work," Victor promises. He rolls them over gently, until Yuuri is on his back and Victor is draped across his chest instead. "How's that?"

"Good," Yuuri murmurs. It's warm and nice under Victor's weight, his head blocking the light from the window except where it slips through his pale hair, haloing him. Yuuri notices a spectacular bruise against Victor's collar bone with a mixture of embarrassment and possession. He lifts his hand to press his thumb into the bruise, gently then harder until Victor hums. "Sorry."

"Why? It matches my costume." Victor laughs at how Yuuri scrunches his face, because the worst part is that he's right, the gradiated charcoal to dove to lavender to byzantium matching the color notes of the bruise so well Yuuri might as well have sucked a piece of coordinated jewelry into his skin. 

Fucking Russians and their pale complexions and their lack of fucking hangovers. Yuuri digs his thumb in harder and this time Victor moans softly. 

"If you bite me enough times I might not even have to wear my costume on the ice," Victor suggests. Yuuri glares at him, jealousy sudden and cold in his veins at the idea of everyone looking at Victor's body the way that he does, and Victor blinks slowly, pleased by whatever he reads off Yuuri's face. He sits up to straddle Yuuri's waist, stretching his arms over his head so that the blanket slips down his back and the only thing Yuuri can see is an endless stretch of smooth, warm skin that he wants to put his mouth all over. "If you're still too drunk for me to ride you, I'll be very disappointed."

Somehow, Yuuri doesn't think that's going to be a problem. 

He'd certainly have to be much drunker than he still is to be unaffected by Victor settled comfortably between his thighs, watching for Yuuri's reaction through his hair as he slides his mouth down Yuuri's cock. Everything's fuzzy without his glasses, but that just makes it hotter, glimmers of ice blue peering up at him, the curled edges of Victor's grin around his cock as Victor coaxes him from slightly interested to half-hard to please just get on my dick already you promised, Victor. 

Yuuri might have said that last part out loud. Already flushed and sleep-sweaty, he goes scarlet when Victor laughs so hard he nearly chokes himself. 

"So impatient, _pryanichek_ ," Victor says as he sits up and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. It's one of the food pet names, but Yuuri always forgets to ask which one after he's not busy trying to get Victor fucking Nikiforov to stop being a tease and ride him already. It's like some crazy fantasy 18-year-old Yuuri came up with when his hormones were crushingly overwhelming and his room was wallpapered in posters of Victor doing hot, athletic things, the cling of spandex leaving absolutely nothing to imagination, not that Yuuri's imagination needed any help. 

_My life is so weird_ , Yuuri thinks in resigned despair, but he forgets about it when Victor is crawling over him and patting the sheets down for the lube. At least drunk, dominatrix Yuuri remembered to put the cap back on before he lost it in the sheets. 

True to his word, Victor does all the work, slicking his own fingers and reaching behind to slide them into himself. It arches his back, drawing Yuuri's eyes in a hot line from Victor's throat all the way down to the fine, blond hairs around the base of his cock. He's only half-hard yet, always slow first thing in the morning. Yuuri thinks he could do just a little of the work, maybe, and reaches to wrap a hand around Victor. At the first slow stroke, Victor lifts his head to smirk down at Yuuri, the spark of it igniting something low and hot in Yuuri's stomach. 

The painkillers are finally starting to work, or maybe the endorphins, whichever is fine, which means that Yuuri can actually concentrate on how Victor sinks down on Yuuri's cock so, so slowly. His thighs are solid muscle under Yuuri's hands, letting him control perfectly the way he slides down centimeter by centimeter, humming deep in his throat at the stretch of it. 

"Victor, ahh, Victor," Yuuri whines helplessly, digging his fingers into Victor's skin to try and hurry him up. It's useless, Victor as my pace as usual in all things, and Yuuri feels the anticipation of it running step sequences over his skin until Victor's weight finally settles on his hips and he's the whole way inside Victor's perfect, velvet heat. 

"Yuura," Victor purrs in answer. He starts moving right away, apparently still stretched enough from the last time, and the roll of his hips as he finds his balance is almost too much for Yuuri to take in his weakened state. Victor is so beautiful moving above him, and Yuuri is trying to hurry Victor along, to catch him up, but more than once he realizes his hand has gone slack on Victor's cock because he's distracted by the ripple of Victor's abdominals, by the sharpness of his hipbone under his other hand. Victor arches and lets his head fall back, arms stretching behind to graze Yuuri's thighs with his fingertips like he's rolling through a perfect spread eagle. 

It's all too much and Yuuri gives in with a low groan, coming undone inside of Victor. He's a panting, shivering mess after that, and it's a good thing that he's on his back because otherwise he'd have likely fallen off the bed again. 

Victor's cock is still hard under his palm. "S-sorry…"

" _Kawaii_ ," Victor assures him, in Japanese just to make Yuuri's ears burn. In revenge he hisses for Victor to hurry up in Russian, _nye meydle_ , something Victor cheerfully calls over his shoulder often when they run. Used in bed it makes Victor's face light up with heat, makes him that much louder as he wraps a hand around Yuuri's and jerks himself off just the way he likes it, rougher and faster than Yuuri ever dares do it on his own. It's messy and beautiful, Victor's hips finally stilling as he gives a last huge shudder and looks down at Yuuri. 

Yuuri flops his arms out wide, begging for a hug, and Victor collapses on him in heavy, willingly laziness. Victor's need for intense cuddling after sex would be overwhelming if Yuuri didn't need so much reassurance himself anyway; as it is the tighter Victor squeezes him, the more the bands of worry constantly lining Yuuri's chest ease, and Yuuri is happy to kiss Victor as much as he wants, always. 

The headache has retreated as far as it's going to. Yuuri can still feel it at the edges of his skull, waiting for the aspirin to wear off, but the nausea is gone. Yuuri wonders for the first time what time it is and when their flight is, then remembers with relief that they decided on an extra day of recovery time in Marseilles. A genius, his husband, Yuuri thinks. 

Victor's phone buzzes beside his head, and when Yuuri turns his head, the notification on the lock screen is from Yuri. It's in Russian, but Yuuri knows the words 'lunch' and 'forgot,' and 'u fucker' is in English. 

"Hey," Yuuri says, nudging at a nearly-back-asleep Victor. "Yurio's texting, he says you promised him lunch." 

Victor huffs and throws himself over onto his other side in a flop, the same way Makkachin does when they try to wake him up for a walk when it's too cold out. Yuuri can't help but smile at the childishness. He could leave him, but honestly he's getting hungry himself, and he's pretty sure that somebody told him crepes were a good hangover remedy. 

Although maybe that was Christophe and thus entirely disreputable advice. Hmm. 

"Come on, I want food," Yuuri urges, and Victor heaves himself out of bed like he weighs twice what he does, saying fine, fine, such a demanding lover, wearing him out with all his demands. 

But then he pauses to look over his shoulder, eyes sparkling as he comments, "Yurio has much better footage of last night on his phone anyway. I made him swear to let me see it first before he uploads it," and then has to make a run for the safety of the bathroom as Yuuri leaps from the bed to come strangle him.


End file.
